Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)(40)

Moments later, they’re blasting me with a stream of water so intense, I slam into the wall behind me and pass out cold.



“Inmate 114. Stand in the circle,” the voice says.

I rise, step into the circle, and hear the buzz.

“What, no sarcastic remark?” the voice asks.

“I’m a good dog,” I say, with a very mean bite.

Once I hear the click, I start my practice, beginning and ending with the warrior pose, then lie down to calm my mind and focus on my breathing. It isn’t long before I hear the slot open. I don’t even look as the bowl scrapes across the concrete floor. I just stand and retrieve it—the same as every day, and I eat, slowly and methodically, like it’s my favorite meal in the world—a grandma slice from Neptune pie. This is the last meal I’m going to eat at Tempest.

I’ve timed it so well, I know when the slot will open and the bowl will go, so I’m finished when it happens. I hear the buzz, but this time I give the bowl a swift kick. It flips up into the air and lands flat against the door, then scurries back and forth, unable to fit through the hole. I watch it move to the left and then to the right as the guard outside does his best to alter the angle of the magnet to no avail. It falls with a clang when his machine powers down.

“Inmate 114. Stand in the circle,” the voice demands.

I nod and do as I’m told. There’s a buzz, then a clanking sound as the door is unlocked, and it slowly swings open.

Fight! Fathom shouts in my ear. He’s joined by my father, and my mother, Bex, Shadow, Arcade, Lucas, Ghost, Luna, Rochelle, and Terrance—by everyone I have ever met, living or dead, all shouting for me to beat this guy’s ass. I leap forward and kick the door with everything I’ve got. It’s a gamble. I have never been able to figure out if the door will automatically lock when it closes, but it’s a chance I have to take. From the other side I hear an “oof,” and a cry of pain. The guard’s gun rattles to the ground as loud as a fireworks display and then settles, silent and waiting. The door slowly creeps open, and I step out into the hall.

His nose has exploded. There is blood all over it and a gash on his forehead leaking down his face. It’s Calvin, the soldier who is helping Amy experiment on me. His eyes meet mine as if he’s wondering whether I’ve got the guts to go for his pistol, and then they widen because he knows I do. We leap at the same time, scrambling for possession, but he’s faster, stronger—he’s not living in a box and eating gruel—so I slam my elbow into his nose with every ounce of aggression I can. He screeches. It’s enough for him to loosen his grip on the gun, and I snatch it away.

“Kid, you’re going to wind up shooting yourself with that,” the soldier warns, his hands up in front of his face.

I click off the safety, cock the hammer, and shake my head.

“My dad’s a cop in the Sixtieth Precinct. He taught me how to use this when I was fourteen. Get in the cell.”

“No.”

“Look at me, Calvin. I look pretty desperate, right?”

“You’ll never get out of here,” he warns as he surrenders to my demands.

“Just give me your keys.”

He unfastens his key ring from a chain around his waist. Among them is a keycard with a White Tower logo printed on its face.

“Aren’t you going to wish me luck?” I ask.

He laughs despite himself, and I slam the door shut. I wave the card over a sensor panel mounted on the wall and hear the buzz and clank of the lock. That was easier than I was expecting, and it takes me a second to wrap my head around the fact that I’m actually standing in the hall without a guard. I scan both directions. There are doors on either side of the hall, and each one has a sensor pad.

“Anybody in there?” I say as I swipe the card over the nearest door. I hear a whimper when it swings open and find a woman about my father’s age with chocolate-brown hair huddled on the floor.

“We’re leaving,” I say, then dart to the next door and repeat the routine. Soon, every door is open and a scrawny, half-starved person is taking his or her first tentative steps toward freedom. A forty-something man with a full beard creeps out of his cell. His eyes are wild, and he’s rocking back and forth with nervous energy. I can’t tell how long he’s been here, but one look at him tells me there’s a good chance he’s lost his mind. It dawns on me that none of these people might be capable of escaping. A few of them are too afraid to leave their cells. I give them all a second look to make sure Bex and my mom aren’t among them, then run to the end of the hall, find a door marked STAIRS, and push through it. Up a flight of steps I go with a gun in one hand and a keycard in the other. I careen through a second stairwell door and right into Amy on the other side. A tray of hypodermic needles she was holding flies into the air and comes crashing down around us.

“Hello.” I level the pistol at her face.

“I’m sorry,” she blubbers. Fat tears rolls down her cheeks so quickly, I wonder if they’ve been waiting for this moment since I arrived. “Don’t kill me.”

“Where are you keeping the others?”

“Lyric, you can’t—”

“I have friends and family in this camp, innocent people, Amy, and we’re going home.”

“Your father is right there,” she says, pointing to a door across the hall.